


The Great Pretender

by Karalena Cullen (Karacullen23)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Smallville
Genre: Analysis, Angst, Cutting, Implied Slash, M/M, Psychological Drama, Psychology, Slash, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karacullen23/pseuds/Karalena%20Cullen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, Future Fic. Lex From the Psychoanalyst's Couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Pretender

The Great Pretender  
January 28, 2013 at 3:30am  
WARNING: Rated M for Disturbing Content

 

Summary: Lex From the Psychoanalyst's Couch

 

January 28, 2013 at 1:00am 

 

I personally find it rather amusing when you're in the middle of an argument with your psychoanalyst. They're trying to tell you that you have severe mental issues, ie: "you're a crazed, delusional psychopath hell bent on destroying the world...and did you stop to contemplate 'why' you're the way that you are? 

 

I could delve into a whole novel's worth of self-analysis at this point in the conversation. Instead I chose to use my superior rhetorical skills by employing a tactic known as a fallacious argument (and get your minds out of the gutter you apes). A fallacious argument is an argument based off of fallacy (untruth) and there are several different sub-genres of fallacious arguments. You have your straw man fallacy in which the rebuttal makes no logical connection between the original argument and argues a different issue entirely.

 

This is an argument used mostly by the ignorant, ill-educated people of little to no intelligence. There's also the red-herring fallacy, which is slightly more clever as the argument is manipulated in such a way that one's opponent finds themselves thrown off of the original track of the argument and begins to argue a different subject with you that you yourself have concocted. Then there's something known as the Luthor fallacy and I personally find it the most rewarding and amusing. The goal of the Luthor fallacy is to simply shock or stun the person into silence, by using a potent mixture of both fallacy and truth.

 

So when asked, "Why do you do the things that you do Lex?"

 

My response was simply, "Well Dr. Smythe, after a considerable amount of time and money spent in psychoanalysis, all of my previous therapists seems to believe that it all stems from the fact that I was brutally sodomized my by father at a very crucial stage of my development. Because the abuse occurred at this specific stage, it is the root of all my evils. It has made me into the crazed, psychopath that I am today. But Dr. Smythe, I do believe that I've found the cure. Patricide.

 

 

Seriously though Doc, some days are harder than others. Holidays are difficult. Everyone expects you to be happy, to paint on that smile and pretend that you're happy, pretend that you're not still constantly seeing everything in the room as a possible weapon of self destruction. That tooth combed knife, dragged slowly across your pale, scarred wrist. Or that perky candy cane patterned ribbon squeezed tight around your scarred throat until it chokes the breath and your face turns blue. I always wondered if that were true. Does a persons face really turn blue when they're breath is cut off for a certain amount of time? And if so, how long before you turn blue? Or maybe it only turns blue after...once you're dead.

 

I have a lot of experience with knives, razors, and other such sharp objects. Christ I even used a CD once to slice into my arm. I had to break it first, you know, to get that razor sharp edge. Although it wasn't exactly what I'd call "razor sharp". It was quite dull actually, but it served it's purpose quite likely. Back then I pretended it wasn't about the blood, or the pain. Back when I used that broken piece of silver plastic I carved a smiley face into my arm and pretended I was happy. Pretended it was just some sort of artistic expression like tattoos, piercings, or even that scarification bullshit.

 

I damn near had my own self convinced too. It was quite the coup actually. A coup I pulled on myself. I was almost successful too aside from the fact that it's not the easiest thing in the world to convince yourself that it's just artistic expression...when you're not actually /expressing/ it to anybody. If I wanted my father's attention, I knew how to get it. It was the drugs, the sex, the blatant, public disregard or disrespect to the Luthor name that got his panties all in a twist. 

 

But that was a very long time ago. That was pussy highschool kid crap. It wasn't until afterwards that I started taking it seriously. And I don't mean serious as in, "Oh fuck I have a serious problem!" No. I mean serious as in I really started getting down to some serious business. It was all very organized and ritualistic. I even had a goddamned kit for crying out loud.

 

The kit was simple. The kit contained a pack of straight edged razors, you know the kind that your grandfather or great grandfather used to shave with? They were thick and strong and sharp as a mother fucker. The kit also contained one of those cheap memo books, a calligraphy pen, some candles, a lighter, and a Sara Mclachlan CD. I would light the candles, put the CD in the small Philips boombox and put that song "Arms of the Angel" on repeat. Do you remember that song? It was off the soundtrack to that movie about the angel that falls to Earth for Meg Ryan's character. He gave up a painless, peaceful, oblivious existence to be with the mortal woman he was in love with, only for her to be killed by a fucking truck "wham", like the first day he's human. Pretty goddamned shitty if you ask me.

 

Anyway that song was important. It meant something or represented something massively important. It meant that life was shit. It represented the agony of wishing there was hope, of wishing somebody cared enough to be there to watch over you but knowing at the same time that that was complete and utter bullshit. In the end nobody's there to watch over you.

 

In the end, you're alone. I still believe this actually, I just pretend it doesn't bother me now. It does bother me. It bothers the ever loving fuck out of me. But I've adjusted, I've accepted it. Or at least... I pretend that I have. I'm a goddamned master at pretending. I should be in the movies I swear to god. I am a professional actor in the piece of shit screenplay called "Life". Have you heard of it? 

 

But I was telling you about my seriousness. Not much more to tell really. You can probably guess what I did next with these razor blades after I lit my candles and put that damned stupid song on repeat. You wouldn't have to be a genius to figure it out. I'd slice myself. I'd slice into my arms to be exact. What made me serious about this part was the fact that I didn't dick around. I got right down to business. I would cut fast and deep and I wouldn't be satisfied until I was absolutely covered in blood, I mean to the point that the damned red stuff soaked through my sheets to the fucking mattress. I also couldn't stop until both of my arms matched, well as best as possible. By the time I made it about halfway through with my right arm I was usually pretty woozy and out of it. That adrenaline and endorphins high I suppose, mixed with pretty substantial blood loss. I used to lay there after and swear sometimes I saw angels or some shit. I knew I was just out of it though. I never /believed/ in what I saw during those times. Bruce found me like that once. I looked up at him and grinned, I remember and he didn't say a goddamned word. Not one goddamned word. He made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, turned on his heel, and walked right back out again. 

 

That was over ten years ago now. I wish I could say it's been a while since the very last time. It has been a long while since I dragged the steel over my skin, but I've adapted and found other ways to hurt myself. I like to pretend to myself that I'm over that shit, that as long as I'm not lighting candles, and using razor blades, then I'm what the shrinks like to refer to as "recovered." The very last time I actually "cut", I wasn't joking around. The last time was the /last time/ because I took the razor to my goddamned throat. I held the razor to my throat, pressed down as hard as I could and then....shreeeeeep. I slit my goddamned throat open. And I did it while Bruce was there. He was in the bedroom getting dressed. He'd spent the afternoon fucking me silly, and now he was fresh out of the shower with one leg in and one leg out of his pants. I still don't know why I did it. I still don't know why I chose that particular time or place. But I simply strode into the room, pulled the dresser drawer open, removed a fresh razor, and that was that. You have to admire Bruce, even in his boxer shorts he maintained his composure and his calm. I dropped to the floor and the last thing I remember before losing consciousness was his big hand wrapping tightly around my throat as he lifted me up into his arms. I woke less than an hour later in the hospital. The doc told me I'd missed the jugular by like half a millimeter or some shit. Said it was a miracle. I didn't see it that way then.

 

I was pissed is what I was. Where the fuck did this omnipotent being think he was getting off? He never bothered to interject before. When my shit faced father was kicking my mothers teeth in, he didn't interject. When I ran screaming to the neighbor's house that dark, foggy night for help and they slammed the door in a terrified four year old little boys face. I really thought my mother was going to be murdered that night. He didn't interject when I the sky fell down on me, or when my father began his "visits" to my bedroom in the dark hours of early morning. There wasn't a peep from him when my mother got sick, or after her and Julian were dead. I could go on and on about a million different times when he /didn't/ interject. But now all of a sudden the heartless bastard was interjecting now?! No. It was too much. So I pretended I didn't believe it was a miracle. It's easier to pretend god doesn't exist rather than believe that he does and he just doesn't care about /you/. Or maybe he just forgot you. He forgot you because...well you just aren't important. You're just not /worth/ being remembered by him or anybody else. I only saw Bruce a few more times after that. He left one night and just never came back. 

 

It's all a bit melodramatic don't you agree? Well I understand. That is, I will pretend that you judging me or worse, that you're not even listening anymore because what I have to say isn't important, well I will pretend that doesn't bother me.

 

I'm great at pretending. I get better and better at it every single day. I pretend that I'm okay and everyone believes me. I pretend that all that heavy, empty darkness is long gone, and they believe me. I pretend that I feel what and when I don't. And they believe me. But then again, maybe they're all just pretending too. Perhaps, we are all, every last god damned one of us, /all/ think that we're fooling the world? Maybe we are all...great god damned pretenders.


End file.
